Their Self is not a complete purposeful human being, of strong character and sustained courage, clear faith, and reasonable hope: certainly not of any charity whatsoever. _The ego they would exalt is a mere riot of moods._ They snatch at a moment's joy, utter a moment's emotion, act on a moment's thought. There is no idea of "finding" oneself _before_ expressing oneself. Every passing fancy, feverish excitement, sudden hate, is to be flung out upon a bewildered world; above all to the confounding and wounding of steadier souls—the old, the middle-aged, or any that bear another's burden. Such tempestuous demands on life are based on anger against parental preachments and on a curious lack of self-confidence. Seeing the glory of youth's capacity for enthusiasm, they seem always afraid that it will fade and die unless encouraged perpetually to explode. They will not tolerate any idea of growth and strength through self-control, any appeal to the higher, deeper Self, built up on loving service and kindness to one's fellow-men. No theory of life ever produced such weak, formless, and utterly miserable human beings. _They quickly cease to have any self to express._ Swayed in a thousand contrary directions by every idle mood, they become more absolutely slaves to chance encounter and a thoughtless word than one would have supposed possible to an intelligent man or woman, with any pride in self or any standard of honour. It should be obvious that such a perpetual series of unconsidered experiments in emotion must wear out all independent thought, all strength of will, all capacity for judgment. Miss Sheila Kaye Smith does not teach this ideal in _Joanna Godden_, but she exposes it with her usual grim sincerity. The heroine of that profound tragedy kills her lonely soul by a perpetual struggle to snatch happiness for herself. Originally a strong woman, she goes on "blundering worse and worse," until "there she stood, nearly forty years old, her lover, her sister, her farm, her home, her good name, all lost." A novel in which we can, however, clearly detect confusion between love and the quick, vicious, response to every sensuous impression, is _The Sleeping Fire_ of W. E. B. Henderson, described by its author as a tale of "the urge in woman . . . where the flesh, crying like an infant for food, is yet held back by scruples of a spirit that bows to circumstance, from fastening on the breast of personal choice." Here "the woman," Viva Barrington, is, again and again, described as "a human soul, innately decent and fine"; and yet she "suddenly kindled" at any man's mere touch. The young guardsman whom "considerable practice had enabled to use his fine eyes with much effect," declared "she could be no end o' fun, if she'd only let herself go." In fact, he took up a bet, "ten to one in quids," that he would kiss her before the last supper dance; "a real live kiss, mind you, where she gives as good as she gets. None of your stolen pecks."